Stars Are Gone

Called out but the pillow drowned
voices warning
remember all the strangled days
twirling confetti
ambient synapses
tipi for trippers
I drove to Dover
so you could watch me fall
into anathema,
choking on slivers
of hope or blood
dark unto spawns
birthed through
bruises or ignorance.

Who said that because
your gold hair
You deserved this rotten
wilderness of devotion
as flesh melts in
honeypots of dreams
thus slanted your sexy
sleepy weariness as
jackals lap your salt
as if I would be impressed
to watch.


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